Bothari
by God of Laundry Baskets
Summary: A few drabbles on Bothari.
1. Miles

Disclaimer: Bless Bujold for creating Miles and the universe that surrounds him. And may long her life be so she can write more books!

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The things you ended up missing most, Miles supposed, were the things that you took for granted while they were there. He stared the Sergeant Bothari's coffin from the other side of the room, a small sob escaping every now and then. How would he continue without his trusted man beside him? How could he ever reclaim the Sergeant's honor that was so easily forgotten in the sins of the past? Miles had know Bothari had an unmentionable past though the details had only recently been revealed but this was the man that had saved Mile's life three times and was so close to his heart that he could feel it breaking into more and more pieces as time went by.

Bothari had been his pillar of strength for so long that when it was yanked away he could feel the world spinning. Or was that the nausea doing that to his perception? The cabin buzzer blatted. He ignored it. And then, suddenly, he knew what he going to do: one day at a time. He could honor Bothari in his soul even if no one else would, and it _would_ mean something. He would make it mean somthing. Bothari had given him that, a self worth that he would keep deep inside even though sometimes it was hidden even from him. The shattered puzzle that the Sergeant's death had made of his heart hadn't been repaired yet, and a few pieces were still loss, maybe forever but maybe he would be able to keep moving forward. If only to keep his promise to Bothari and take him home. To Barrayar.

Hope you enjoyed reading! Reviews and critism are alway's welcome and appriciated.


	2. Darkness

Disclaimer: All characters are copywrited by the wonderful mind of Lios McMaster Bujold... Hopefully none were harmed too badly...

Another drabble that popped up... A boring day in english does wonderful things to my mind. I just love the ultimate anti-hero that is Bothari, he just makes my muse sing with ideas. This one is a little speculative on Bothari's past from tidbits that are in some of the books. A few more may be forethcomming, but my muse hasn't been very definate about that...

:3 Hope you enjoy, and remember that reviews are wonderful and critisim is the lifeblood of improvement!

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The thunder shook the ill built brothel and a chilly moist wind blew through the cracks in the closet door, dampening the animalistic grunts and groans coming from the other side. Bothari and put his head between his knees, gritting his teeth to suppress the hiss of pain. The scores on his back still stung from the last time that his mother had whooped him for interrupting her in the middle of her 'work' but it was that or take a leak in the closet. _At least it's her this time,_ he thought before quickly suppressing the memory of the last person who had wanted to "try something different this time." That was ten times worse than when she hired him out for back-breaking manual labor.

He closed his eyes and tried to occupy his mind, to be somewhere else. Anywhere else. And as so often it did these days, it drifted to the uniforms of the Barrayaran Military Service with their crisp ironed uniforms and shiny buttons. What he wouldn't give to be one of them. Marching in neat rows bringing order to the chaotic world. Ever since he had escaped that one Winterfair and watched, crouching in the shadows, the soldiers marching through the streets clearing them so that the some snooty _Vor_ Lord could come prancing through for God knows what reason, he had felt a hunger to wear that uniform that surpassed the even the pit that was his stomach.

He didn't notice when the marching soldiers of his imagination melded into the landscape of his dreams. He slept on as the storm rolled over Caravanserai, until the door was yanked open and dirty morning light streamed in through the yellowing curtains. Someone grabbed his wrist and half threw him into the center of the small room, his stiffened muscles screaming. He quickly gained his balance and looked up into the face of his painted face of his mother. She snarled and snatched his bicep with a grip that would leave bruises and unceremoniously dragged the blearily blinking boy to the door and shoved him out sending him sprawling on the floor. "Konstantin, get downstairs and help 'em move those boxes into the truck. Wake me up later, and give me the bag that they give you when your done," and with that she slammed the door in his face. Only his mother called him by his given name. Everyone else just called him Bothari, continually reminding him of his bastard origins, or, as was more often the case, they didn't even bother with that and it was just 'boy' or 'bastard.'

It would be drugs, of course. And he knew without even seeing the boxes that they would be too heavy for a boy of his age, but the job would get done unless he wanted another beating when he woke his mother. It would be a bad one too, because without her pick-me-ups his mother's short temper frayed so that he would likely be locked in the closet and forgotten for days on end. It had happened before, it could happen again. "No one would defend a bastard like you, so you do your work without question or complaint. No one gives a shit," as the owner of the brothel so often put it; usually spoken as the owner gave Bothari a few choice kicks to the ribs as a reward for some 'shoddy work.'

He got up slowly stretching all of his aching muscles, his back as straight as it wishing he were stronger, bigger and older so that he might be able to join the Service and get away from this madness. He made his way towards the unlit stairwell and into dark abyss that threatened to swallow him whole...


End file.
